Poor Antonio

I pray that I will be safe until morning. When I am finally exhausted and ready to go to sleep, he is determined to sleep with me in his bed. “I will respect you,” he insists, but I don’t believe him after the wrestling match that has taken place all evening. Another argument ensues as I remind him of the promise he made about our sleeping arrangements, and as I close the bedroom door I hear him stomp around the apartment like a child.

That night, I have a dream that as I am walking in the backyard of my childhood home, I see a man standing there, not moving, but watching me. Disturbed, I quickly go into the house and lock the door behind me. I am walking upstairs to warn my mother about the man’s presence, when I hear my mother screaming. I run, throw open the door to the room she’s in, and find her crouching in a corner: “Emilie, look.” The man has somehow changed form and slipped through the cracks of the house. His body is in the shape of a serpent, and he’s slithering under the carpet towards my mother. I wake up terrified and stay awake until dawn.

I get out of bed early the next morning and pack my things. I walk out to the kitchen with my backpack and see that Antonio’s mother and sister are busy making breakfast, while Antonio sits reading the paper and drinking coffee. After flippant introductions, I am surprised when Antonio’s sister offers me a wagging finger, “Tsk, tsk,” she says in broken English. “No woman says ‘no’ to my brother.” She walks to him and messes up his hair. “Poor Antonio.” “I think I’m going to take off now,” I say, trying to make my voice sound casual. Antonio’s eyes do not leave his paper as he replies, “I have never met a woman like you. You need a hormone injection.”

As I walk out the door into the warm Venetian sunlight, I find myself stinging from his words. Was I manipulative, did I lead him on? He wanted sex and I wanted romance. Our expectations were obviously quite different: should I have known that by saying “yes” to staying in his apartment, I was agreeing to sex? My self-critic begins to rear its ugly head again as I consider my own stupidity.  But as I survey the beauty of my surroundings, the light bouncing off the water, and the bustle of a new day, I decide to practice the art of forgiveness on myself for once. I am okay, nothing was damaged or stolen, and, after a shower and a cup of coffee, I might even find the situation mildly amusing. But I have certainly learned my lesson: next time, I will remember to include my gut in conversations with my heart.